Why Is This My Job
by IBrooks-Clarke
Summary: In Skyrim, tradition states that a dragonborn is created via the blessings of Kyne and Akatosh. It is true that around year 200 of Tamriel's fourth era, the return of the dragon-god Alduin was somewhat imminent and thus there was great need for a new dragonborn. It is also true that neither Akatosh or Kynareth could not have made a worse choice.


In Skyrim, tradition states that a dragonborn is created via the blessings of Kyne and Akatosh. It is true that around year 200 of Tamriel's fourth era, the return of the dragon-god Alduin was somewhat imminent and thus there was great need for a new dragonborn.

It is also true that neither Akatosh nor Kynareth could not have made a worse choice.

This was perhaps due to the fact that, as of late, Akatosh was having a few minor issues with his coffee machine, and he was worried that it might need to go back into the store he bought it from for servicing. He had not kept the reciept.

The girl who would be dragonborn had not been born with any of the things favoured by others her age; nice hair, a slim waist, the ability to turn small creatures inside out. In truth, she was made mostly of bones and sarcasm. But she was well-liked enough, at least by the other Grey Quarter children. By the time she turned fifteen she had become the apprectice of Windhelm's court wizard, and Akatosh had decided on purchasing a brand new coffee machine. Sure, the old one still worked okay, but who knew when it would finally kick the bucket? He may as well use it for a trade-in, and not tell the store clerk that the milk creamer was only attached by duct tape and necromancy. But he still wasn't sure whether or not he should trade in the milk-creaming cup. His made slightly too much milk for one cup of coffee, but what if the new one was bigger? Also, should he find one that ground the beans itself, or keep using coffee powder? The bean-grinding ones were definitely more expensive.

She possessed none of the qualities usually attributed to heroes such as the Dragonborn, either; not strength, fortitude, nor valor. In truth, she was quite unremarkable. One would presume some individual of outstanding merit would have been the first choice for Akatosh's blessing. And perhaps he would have put a little more thought into the descision, had he not been preoccupied with kitchen appliances. Nonetheless, up until the point at which she was revealed as Dragonborn, this young woman was perfectly contented with her existance. On the morning of 9 Evening Star, in the 201st year of the Fourth Era, she had been sent by her adoptive mother to the Stone Quarter for supplies. Why her mother didn't just ask Aval to pick them up after he finished work for the day, she didn't know. Then again, her uncle was hardly trustworthy; he would be just as likely to purchase a dozen jars of pickles as anything else.

She collected a sack of potatoes, six onions, two leeks, a small bag of salt, and five pounds of cured venison for just over thirty Septims. The fresh fish she needed could be found cheaper at the docks, as so she crossed the courtyard and ducked into an alley leading down to the graveyard. The stone tiles were slippery with thawing ice, and the fur lining of her boots was wearing thin. Her mother would not be happy; boots were expensive, and just last week she'd needed a new pair of pants after slipping on wet gravel and shredding her knees. And her robes, hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs, were so washed out and devoid of colour that the cloth was almost see-through. At least the gloves Quintus had given her a few days ago were warm, though. She hadn't the heart to tell him that his gift would likely be incinerated sooner or later. Pyromancy tended to be rather unfriendly toward fine kid-skin.

It was at this point that Kyne decided upon prodding Akatosh with a sharp stick in order to make him pay some attention to his champion. Akatosh was greatly incensed by this, and told Kyne that she was not invited over for coffee when he finally decided which machine to buy. However, he did acknowledge that he had not bestowed upon this champion the usual favours reserved for his other pet heroes. After much deliberation as to which coffee maker best complemented the other inhabitants of his benchtop, Akatosh decided to send her a dragon. This did not particularly please Kynareth. The dragon he chose was about the size of the Windhelm stables, muddy brown in colour, and had the mental capacity of a teaspoon. It had to be convinced to leave the cover of its clifftop perch with the promise of chocolate mousse when it returned. Once it had left, Akatosh took the chocolate mousse from his fridge and ate it, because he did have a little faith in the girl. And besides, if she was eaten and the dragon returned, he could always say that Kyne had taken the mousse and give it some jell-o.

The first thing that caught the girl's attention was a soft rumbling sound from the direction of the mountains behind the city. This was nothing out of the ordinary, she supposed, because small avalanches were common this time of year. Very few people were present on the dockside, apart from the odd fisherman or sailor. Only three vessels were in port; Gort's ferry-boat, easily the smallest of the bunch, plus the North Wind and another she didn't recognize. Her mother would be in a black mood tonight if the new ship was an East Empire trader; her business did not need any more competition. Gort waved a casual greeting, and she replied. A few of the fishermen recognized her and pulled a crate from the bench behind them. She traded a handful of gold for the fish, and set off back home.

She was almost through her front door when something very large and very quick skimmed the rooftops, sending slate careening down into the alley below. She rammed her key into the door's lock and twisted it, almost bending the metal in half. The door opened and she slammed it behind her, dropping the groceries on the floor. Her hands shaking, she bolted the ground-floor shutters and drew bars across them. Outside she could hear a noise like a blizzard, and the grating of loose street debris against the walls of houses. For half a minute she sat with her back against the cool stone of the fireplace, hands covering her ears. Then the cacophany gave way to the soft, muted sound of sodden wreckage falling back to earth. She rose to her feet, hesitant, and realised her hands were still shaking. Brushing the loose grit that had fallen from the ceiling off her robes, she noticed a pair of shutters had been blown from their hinges. They hung from the windowframe a limp wreckage of bowed iron and splintered wood.


End file.
